You will pay for your sins (you'll be sorry my dear)
by ibuzoo
Summary: There's blood on the tip of her fingers, old and crusted little crumbs hide beneath her fingernails and she tries to scrub them away, rubs and grates on her skin until it's pinkish red, until it burns but the blood won't disappear, leaves the creases of her palms in crimson.


**You will pay for your sins (you**'**ll be sorry my dear)**

**Prompt: **Absolution

**Rating: **M

**Warnings: **Modern Universe / Killer AU

**Word count: **1524

**Summary:** She stands at the sink at night, observes the way the neon bulb casts a fake halogen light on her skin, makes it almost look as white and ghostly as milk with blueish shades where her veins are running. There's blood on the tip of her fingers, old and crusted little crumbs hide beneath her fingernails and she tries to scrub them away, rubs and grates on her skin until it's pinkish red, until it burns but the blood won't disappear, leaves the creases of her palms in crimson.

**A/N: **This story totally counterposes Tom's darkness and Hermione's pureness and how it kinda changes during the development because in the end Hermione's not chaste, not nice at all - she's not dark in this story, not by any means.

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

><p><strong>o.<strong>

There's a terrible laughter in the air, dark pitched with cutting edges which carve scars in the flesh of her tanned skin.

It rings like gunfire in her ears.

_(she counts 13 freckles on his skin)_

**i.**

There's a man on his knees before their feet, panting frantically and Tom circuits him like a raptor does his prey, observes the muscles twitch with every word that echoes from the hollow walls of the warehouse. It's utter cliché that he chose this location of all things but Hermione stopped to wonder about these trivialities a long time ago and when she breathes the air hitches in her throat, leaves her mouth in balks.

She watches terrified as soon as his step stop and the horror spreads in her eyes like fire does on gasoline when Greyback takes the sledge and hammers it down on the man's fingers, one by one. The cracking sound of breaking bones rips her iris open until the dark fades and a dozen different kinds of brown blur together in some kind of cosmic kaleidoscope until Tom takes her face in his long spideresque fingers, pushes her chin upwards so her eyes rest on his.

He kisses her, wet and open, sucks on her bottom lip until the scent of blood lingers on her tongue and he whispers her name between each kiss.

_(Hermione Hermione Hermione)_

It feels like an apology but Hermione pushes the thought aside, closes her eyes and kisses him back.

**ii.**

Sometimes she feels like she offers dark red cherries which stain her palms.

**iii.**

She stands at the sink at night, observes the way the neon bulb casts a fake halogen light on her skin, makes it almost look as white and ghostly as milk with blueish shades where her veins are running. There's blood on the tip of her fingers, old and crusted little crumbs hide beneath her fingernails and she tries to scrub them away, rubs and grates on her skin until it's pinkish red, until it burns but the blood won't disappear, leaves the creases of her palms in crimson.

She goes back to bed, pulls the blanket to her chin and starts to count the freckles on Tom's bare shoulders, ignores the cardinal that drips from her fingers.

_(eleven, twelve, thirteen)_

She counts and sleeps.

**iv.**

There are four flower bouquets on the table, white lilies with bilious green vines and rose ribbons that coil around them and they appear softhearted, almost sheer as a decoration - Bellatrix work she supposes.

They're sitting around the table, all eleven apostles, eyes focused on the man that represents more Death than Jesus and Hermione feels an awful lot like Maria Magdalene during the last supper, watching from afar, worshipping the ground he walks on. Tom barks order after order, talks with highest precision and concentration about the next jobs and Hermione observes in silence, watches the way the muscles in how jaw work their magic, how his jawbones move with every turn in his voice and she hears even the smallest stirring of emotions behind his usual mask of ice that covers one of the most beautiful faces she ever saw.

He speaks about torture and shady businesses, factors her into it as if there has never been anything else in her life, as if she has always been a part of it while his thumb draws circles in the back of her hand, presses down on her pulse to feel she's alright about this, her heartbeat stays in unison with his.

She debates internally how far she really wants to be a part of this but as soon as Tom guides her hand up to his mouth and breathes kisses on her mauled skin, everything else fades to black.

_(it feels like an apology but Hermione pushes it aside, rests her eyes on the lilies and stays silent)_

**v.**

The sun shines in dusty colors through her window, the morning dew casts little droplets of shadow on her cushions while a freezing chill wakes her in early morning hours. She blinks the sleep away and her eyes rest on petals and flowers that cover her bed. She sits up and takes a look at the rose in her lap, white with dark red edges that bleed in the petals and she wonders who put it there, realizes that the question is why, not who. It's almost a hypnotizing feeling to watch the petals curve one in one and she loses herself in it while she feels her palms stained with red once more.

_(she tries to scrub it down, uses every soap and scrubber she can find but the red won't leave)_

**vi.**

Translucent silk covers her body and the fabric refracts the sunlight in a dozen different colors, plays with the spectrum of a rainbow and Hermione watches intrigued, almost charmed when his fingers lift the layers of the silk one by one until she bares her womanhood at him; thighs open and wet. Her teeth leave scratches on the thin layer on her lips the same time as his leave marks of apologies on her flesh, red, biting, possessive and she feels the meaning behind each of them, feels the pain throb to remind her.

_(i'm sorry, forgive me, i'm sorry)_

Her eyes rest on his and she feels his hands tremble at her sides, observes the way his grey eyes go dark, swallow every emotion until nothing remains than pure lust. The feeling of blood sticks to her palms but she ignores it, bares her thighs even wider and shivers, moans the moment he conquers her.

The feeling on her palms remains.

**vii.**

Her palms itch in the middle of the night and there's blood, there's crimson and it sticks and glues and she scrubs it down in the bathroom, fills the sink with hot water to rinse it off.

She gives up half an hour later, buries herself behind Tom's back and starts to count the freckles on his shoulders again, draws them one by one, just feathery touches to not wake him up.

_(eleven, twelve, thirteen)_

She realizes that her hands will never be clean again.

**viii.**

She offers dark red cherries, which stain her palms, but it feels like she offers her heart, raw and beating and bleeding.

**ix.**

Ice crumbs and crystals float on the surface of an iron tub and Hermione watches horrified, almost aghast as Tom dunks the blond head under the water again and again until little white crusts rest in goldish locks and bright blue eyes are bloodshot from the frost. Nott shivers, trembles while frostbites are already shaped on his neck and Hermione takes a step forward, lays her hand on Tom's upper arm, whispers, "Stop."

He reels around and grabs her face with both hands, stares her straight in the eye and he watches, observes, seeks for something and Hermione is not entirely sure what he needs, what he searches for but he seems to find it because suddenly he yanks her close and kisses her straight on her lips, bites and stings until the copper taste lingers on their tongues again. There's a hand in her hair and his fingers grip hard, almost painfully until she feels them dig into her skull to press her even closer, closer, closer.

It feels like an amend and Hermione knows, kisses him back, presses against him.

She knows.

**x.**

There's a flower in her palm the next morning, a single anemone with virgin-white petals and dark red seeds in the middle.

_(this is unnatural, this is a warning, this is an apology)_

She watches the way it bleeds in her palms.

**xi.**

Sometimes she feels like she offers dark red cherries, which stain her palms each time he kisses her, each time his lips capture hers.

Her breathing breaks and she tries not to tell him just how much she loves him while she chokes down the feeling, trembles from the effort but then he reaches over and touches her and it feels like a hymn for which no words exist yet while he waits for her to kiss him, to bless him, to grant absolution for his sins.

She offers her lips and it feels like she offers her heart, raw and beating and bleeding.

_(the red on her palms won't disappear, it's the price for her sin to wash him clean after all)_

**xii.**

The gun rests in his hands, steady and calm with a perfect aim. There's no fear in her eyes anymore, no horror when he pulls the trigger - just a terrible laughter in the air, dark pitched with cutting edges that carve scars in the flesh of her tanned skin.

_(it rings like gunfire in her ears)_

Her lips find his and she tastes the gunpowder on the thin layer of skin, tastes sweat and blood.

The laughter stops.

**xiii.**

Her palms are stained with crimson and carmine and she loves the way his skin rest clean, white and alabaster.

She counts 13 freckles on his skin and falls asleep with his name on her lips.


End file.
